


Consequences

by Kayasurin



Series: Costs [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: And what results, Bunny Angst, Discussion of seasonal duties, Gen, Odd POV, Thawing lakes, Vs. Skating on them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:23:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayasurin/pseuds/Kayasurin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are so many things you can say, should say. Instead, you pick up your foot and shove it into your mouth. "Why were you so stupid to go skating on the lake, anyways?" you ask.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A discussion on seasonal duties turns into a revelation for the Guardians. Bunny doesn't take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequences

You are a mess. An absolute, goddamned mess. There's a lot of excuses, but it all boils down to one thing and one thing only. Your apparent life goal is to swallow your foot as many times as possible in one day.

It starts simply enough. Just a talk amongst the five of you. They're more common now, because Jack's joined you, and it turns out he's absolutely clueless about... everything. Half the reason he showed up on the Naughty list is because he was breaking rules he didn't know existed. So, once a month the four of you try to teach him stuff. Ranks and manners and the proper way to antagonize the Groundhog, though North scolds you for it.

North has bad friends. Jack laughs when you say it, but he's wary around you. Always wary, the way he isn't with the others. To be fair, he's got reason. The two of you have a _history_. Doesn't help that neither of you are well socialized, either. You always say the wrong thing, and he doesn't know how to deal with people.

Somehow, the conversation this time shifts onto seasonal duties. The others aren't seasonals, it's just you and Jack, so you have to do most of the talking. It's fairly obvious you're not good at it. You pause, you repeat yourself five times in as many minutes, you get distracted and go off on tangents about tree growth and soil composition.

Tooth calls you a plant geek, and Sandy threatens to get you a nametag that reads, apparently "Hailo mY nam is Plent Geek." Sandy's never been much for spelling. That's something that happens to other people.

It's also why he rarely spells out his messages. He usually does it one letter at a time.

"Wait," Jack says, and points his hand - his entire hand, who does that? - at you. "What do you mean, bring the thaw?"

You shrug, and play with a pencil someone left lying about. On the desk. Out at a work station. Where someone had been drafting new toy designs. It wasn't like it'd been used or anything. They were clearly done with it.

"I mean, well, sometimes it doesn't thaw. On time."

You look up, and Jack's staring at you. "Yeah. You said that."

You take a deep breath, because - because. You're not good at this anymore. You begin to tap your foot, a quick jiggle of your leg, because it's that or shift around on your seat like a raw recruit during his first debrief. "Sometimes it's just nature. Sometimes it's enemy action." You freeze, because what did you just say? Enemy action? What?

Jack scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Good question. You cast about for something to say, and taste your foot when you say, "Not all winter spirits are as easily distracted as you are."

Jack's off and running at that, eyebrows furrowing into an angry V over his eyes. Tooth gives you a disappointed look, and North and Sandy go for the eggnog. You reply to Jack, snapping for every snarl he gives you, even as you wonder what you said to set him off. He is easily distracted. Just look at right now. You started off arguing about his attention span and now you're on weather patterns and self-fulfilling prophesies.

Tooth steps in before things get messy, but only just in time. Jack, clearly gritting his teeth, settles back down into his chair and points his hand at you again.

"What was that about thawing stuff again?"

You stare at Jack's hand. Is that a threat? Does he talk with his hands like Italians supposedly do? (That doesn't make any sense, hands don't make word-sounds. You can use them to sign, you suppose, but _hands_ don't _talk_. Verbally. People talk, using their mouths. Your eye twitches. Metaphors. _Human_ metaphors.)

"Look," you say, enunciating carefully. "Sometimes the weather patterns get... off. During transitory weeks between the seasons. So you get pockets of winter, surrounded by everything else thawing into spring. And that's not healthy for the plants or the animals."

"Okay," Jack says, drawing the word out until it's almost incomprehensible.

"And sometimes," you say, still careful about pronunciation and pacing. "Sometimes a winter spirit will... see how long someone notices." There. That's diplomatic.

Jack glares, eyes narrow and judgmental, but you think about volcanic eruptions and ash clouds and a summer-that-wasn't, and hold steady. Just. You just hold steady, and you don't look away, not until Jack does first.

And then you blink a good dozen times because your eyeballs have dried out.

You've overheard people say that they consider you... competent. Authoritative. Proficient. Some days you have a hard time imagining _why_.

"Okay, I'll buy that," Jack says. "What do you do?"

"What do you do to bring winter?" you ask.

"Uh, wind currents and whack trees with my staff to frost them?" Jack holds up the staff in question, and twists his face up until he looks lopsided and like he's tilting sideways, even though he isn't.

"And if there's a place that... doesn't?"

"You mean Texas?" Jack quips, and then shrugs. "I, uh, it's... I dunno? I just do? Something?"

You sigh. What were you expecting? "With me, it's usually lakes," he offers. "Rivers, less often, but lakes are large bodies of water that don't move around much. Real good heat sinks, those."

"Yeah," Jack says, once more drawing the word out until it's incomprehensible. "They do freeze good."

"Well, sometimes they stay frozen, when they shouldn't."

Jack's eyebrows pinch together. "You... thaw lakes?"

"Not usually," you say, and shrug. You can count on - okay, _two_ hands, only because you have four to the human five - the number of times you've had to thaw a lake in the past thousand years. Lately, with humans being the inquisitive bastards they are (and you mean it entirely affectionately) the winter spirits, the real troublemakers that aren't just apples gone sour, but wooden and full of worms, have been holding off seeding lakes with magic ice just to watch the chaos.

Humans, these days, would _notice_. And investigate. And as much as the Guardians need belief, the vast majority of the spirit world does not want it. What's believed in can be seen. Touched. _Studied_.

Thanks to the usual spirit belief in having an air of mystery, winter spirits have been better behaved now than ever before.

"But you thaw lakes," Jack says.

You explain about the magic ice, and he nods slowly. You suppose he sees the sense in your words. It's not like the ice would melt without your interference, and a frozen lake in midsummer would cause issues. The one thing they haven't had to explain to him is the balance, between summer and winter, spring and autumn.

"Do you - what lakes?"

There's something about the question, and you do shift in your seat. "Well," you say, and start thinking out loud. The last time you thawed a lake... That was a century and a half ago, thank you Blizzard of '68....

"That wasn't me," Jack mumbles, and his face is sarcoline for once, instead of leucochroic. Over that is silver frost, not quite managing to hide the color in his cheeks. "That was... I mean, yeah, same time, but not me."

You nod, not sure if you believe but... willing to give the benefit of the doubt, whatever _that_ means. That you're willing to believe Jack's word, at least until contrary evidence shows up.

"Ah, before that..." It takes you a minute. It really has been a while since the winter spirits have pulled this sort of trick, hasn't it? "Three centuries ago, I think?"

Jack goes still, and that's unusual. Even when he's relaxed, he's fidgeting or fiddling with something. Rather like you, in that way, just more obvious about it. "Three centuries ago?" he asks, and there's something wrong, because Tooth is shifting in her seat and North puts down his glass of eggnog. Sandy stares at you, sad-eyed and slump-shouldered.

"Yes?"

"What part of the country?"

The last time had been in Europe, and the time before that... "Western Americas? 'Bout halfway up the continent? Why?"

Jack ducks his head, and a muscle at the corner of his jaw begins to twitch. "Do you remember me telling you guys how I... became a spirit?"

You frown, because of course you do. Even as matter of fact as Jack had been, it wasn't exactly comfortable. Your only consolation is that it's not the _worst_ story, by far. You've heard others - torture, being burnt alive as a witch, and what have you. At least, in a way, Jack chose his fate. He'd said he'd known what would happen, but he couldn't let his sister drown.

"Yeah," you say, and shrug. "I don't...?"

"The ice had been solid for months," Jack mutters into the table. "Months. Even though it'd gotten warmer. That's why... it was a good day, and I'd promised. And suddenly the ice starts melting?" He looks up, and you're pinned to your seat. "Three centuries ago. That lake where I took the oath, that's the one. Did you - did you thaw that one?"

You almost wish Jack hadn't asked that, because now that you're thinking about it... yes. That's the lake. You didn't know which winter spirit had done it, you still don't know - and don't care, or didn't, maybe you should care - but you did your job. It was late March, almost April, and it was past time for the ice to melt. So you did your job, and moved on.

Your realization must be obvious, because Jack ducks his head again, that muscle twitching at the corner of his jaw. His hands are fists against the table, already white knuckles gone bloodless, the skin stretched taught over bone.

There are so many things you can say, should say. Instead, you pick up your foot and shove it into your mouth. "Why were you so stupid to go skating on the lake, anyways?" you ask.

The meeting pretty much goes to hell in a hand basket after that. And you're almost sure it's not a metaphor this time.

So here you are, having retreated to your Warren. Nice, safe Warren, with the rolling hills that you sculpted by hand, the guardian eggs that you carved by hand. The magic you imbued the place with, yours, the earth's. The scent of green growing things (so unlike burnt flesh and scorched earth, acid and blood and there's never, ever any flies to buzz and bring back memory after painful, wrenching memory) and paint, eggs, a bit of a whiff of your compost heap but it's a good, rich smell. Even if it is a bit strong.

There are things you want to say - I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I never thought anyone could be hurt - and it doesn't matter, does it, because you have acted and it had an effect. A butterfly flaps its wings in Russia and causes a hurricane in Mexico and _how could you have known_?

You couldn't have known, you tell yourself. You couldn't have known. You'd been in a hurry. You hadn't seen anyone.

But it doesn't matter, does it?

You couldn't have known.

But it's still your fault.

It always is.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, I'm sorry, I'm clearly scum. Especially since this is such a... different POV style for me. Yet it refused to work any other way.
> 
> FrostOverlord and CleverCorgi are poking at me for a sequel. A... happier sequel. I'm considering it, and of course happy requires Jack Frost POV. And maybe Jackrabbit. We'll see.


End file.
